Mortal Coils
by Mme. Patria
Summary: All the rest is silence, he'd said... Liar. Now, in the distant future, Henning and his friends are subjected to the pain and madness that occurred over two centuries ago when a teacher arrives on campus, claiming the impossible. With the help of reluctant-ghost Horatio and a pocket Shakespeare, Henning hopes to lay to rest the ghosts of the past. And not get killed in the process.
1. The Question

_"To be, or not to be, that is the question:_

_Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer _

_The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, _

_Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, _

_And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep _

_No more; and by a sleep, to say we end _

_The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks _

_That flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation _

_Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep, _

_To sleep, perchance to dream; Aye, there's the rub, _

_For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, _

_When we have shuffled off this_ **mortal coil**?"

- From William Shakespeare's _Hamlet, _Act 1, Sc. III


	2. Prologue: Anathema

Prologue

The ghost of Horatio looks at Henning for a long, long moment, and he feels his heart stop. Then it starts thudding very fast and loudly as he sees the look he's giving him. The sadness. The regret.

"Murder?" Henning echoes back to him, the word foreign and strange on his lips.

Horatio nods with an air of decision, stepping forward slightly.

"Yes", he says.

"Oh god." Henning wavers, raising a hand to his hairline.

Horatio grabs the cuff of his shirt, his expression grave with a faint trace of frustration.

"Are you feeling ill?" he asks. And he seems genuinely concerned, completely calm. _Casual_, even.

Henning stares at him, eyes wide as a seal pup's.

"You just told me there's an insane murderous spirit trying to take over my body", he stammers.

"Does that make you frightened of _me_, Henning?"

He shakes his head mutely, trying to recover his voice. "No… Well, yes… No… It's just… you said you were… _are _friends with him… That kind of automatically makes you a man slaughterer – if you helped him."

"I don't understand", Horatio stares at him blankly, not understanding the language he's using.

"… You helped him commit an act of… murder. It's… evil."

Horatio's still staring into Henning's eyes, his own shadowed. Dark. It's quite unnerving considering what he's just been told.

"What if the person he killed was bad? What if they deserved to die?"

Henning's eyes widen in horror.

"No one deserves to die Horatio!"

"Even if _they're_ evil?"

"Evil people need to be punished", Henning says, "Not killed. Killing is wrong. _Killing_ is evil".

Horatio sighs. "You don't understand Henning. If you had… If you had _known _him…" he took a deep breath, opalescent wide shoulders rising and falling in an elegant, scornful shrug, "Some people are anathema, Henning. Some people simply _have_ to die".


	3. Chapter 1: New Arrivals

1

The eclipsed moon hangs ghostly in the pitch-black night sky, like an opalescent, white wedding ring.

Fog curls in tendrils around the road, rolling in waves across the hills, and the wind rattles dead tree branches like impatient skeletal fingers.

It paints a sinister picture as Mister Farrell's BMW makes it slow way up the twisting dirt road. _Sinister, _Harry thinks to himself with a shudder, plugged silently into Iron Maiden as he leans his head against the window, his breath fogging the glass in the nippy night air.

The school campus sits at the base of a tall valley overlooking the big city that will be Harry's home for the next few months.

The school itself is modern, compared to the rest of the town, which maintains its cobbled alleys and little side streets faithfully.

All red brick and ivy with floor to ceiling windows and walkways.

_"Keep your distance, walk away, don't take his bait/Don't you stray, don't fade away/Watch your step, he's out to get you, come what may/Don't you stray, from the narrow way…" _

"Mister Farrell?" Harry murmurs, pulling his massively oversized headphones off and looking at the man seated next to him, hands gripping the wheel tightly.

"Yes Harry?" Mister Farrell – the new school deputy principal – asks, not looking up from the twisting road ahead.

"Do you always pick up the new students?"

Farrell's knuckles whiten. "Well, you forget that I'm new too, Harry. Principal Guerdon thought it best that I escort some of the new students for the new semester", he explains.

"Wouldn't it be best to go in through the city though?"

"I just got back from the airport", Farrell is a little waspish, Harry's constant questions are starting to get on his nerves, "The airport's on the other side of the valley, like your new home. It'd be easier to just pick you up on the way back."

He looks up at the new student's stunned face and sighs, softening. "Sorry. It's been a long twenty-four-hours."

"Really? Where'd you come back from?"

"Demark. I was away on a business trip."

"Oh… do any skiing?"

He smiles tightly, shaking his head. "No, Harry. No time for skiing. You probably know how it is, with your mother's job…"

Harry nods.

Anya Rickers – Harry's mother – has been roped into this big business trip in Chicago so Harry has been sent to stay on sight at the campus – not like most kids who just stay with their parents if they live so close.

Still, he can always catch a bus into town and visit Cassiopeia, their housekeeper.

Harry listens to the distant ping-pong of Iron Maiden through the headphones he's slipped off and turns to the window, drawing a weak little smiley face with his finger on its foggy glass – he kind of feels like that smiley face at the moment…

Suddenly something outside catches his eye and he squints.

"Damn it", he murmurs softly as he looks out the window.

Snow. Harry hates snow. It means it's too cold to rain.

Harry Rickers, being a third Swedish, has spent heaps of time around Europe – not to mention that he used to live in England – so he thought he'd be used to the colder weather in the hills surrounding campus and the city. Though so far he has been proven wrong.

He rubs his hands together, their skin creaking like old leather, and looks up at his new deputy principal, who just finished talking and is looking at him expectantly.

_Huh. Guess I must've conked out there. _

He swallows and smiles meekly at Farrell. "Yes Mister Farrell", he murmurs, "I will".

It seems like the logical thing to say.

Farrell rolls his eyes, turning back to the road and speeding up.

"I just asked if you were cold, dumbass", he laughs, and after a moment Harry joins in shakily.

Usually getting called a _dumbass_ or _genius (sarcastically) _by your own teacher should be concerning but – after seeing how Principal Guerdon knocks Pamira Campus (their rival) – Harry feels almost grateful that Farrell is so laid back and easy going, despite his snappish moments.

"Sorry", he mumbles, feeling a coldness spread inside his chest as he looks up at the eclipsed moon.

"You're nervous. I get it".

Farrell lets his smile fade away and pushes his mass of caramel curls behind his ears, sliding his headphones back on.

Ah. Iron Maiden.

_"You damaged my mind and my soul it just floats through the air/Haunt me, you taunt me, you torture me back at your lair -"_

He slips his headphones off abruptly, feeling a shudder curl up his spine.

He leans across to look at Mister Farrell again wide, doe-like eyes.

The deputy principal is glaring deeply at the road ahead, steely eyes cold, calculating.

He almost looks as if he doesn't want to keep driving…

What is going on inside that man's head…?


	4. Chapter 2: Nightmare

2

"Kill him!"

The boat kicks and keels in the wind.

Hamlet isn't sure which one of his friends gave the order, but he'd have to guess it was Rosencrantz seeing as Guildenstern is currently lunging towards him.

Before Hamlet can react – before he even _wants _to react – Guildenstern had his elbows pinned behind his back, and the smell of alcohol and hot breath against his ear makes the prince gag.

For a terrifying moment Hamlet thinks Rosencrantz is going to use his mace, but instead he just approaches Hamlet and, taking him by the lapels of his vest, hisses: "On your knees."

Hamlet stares back blankly.

He should have waited. He should have waited 'til they got to England. But he couldn't help himself… The bastards were so damn smug.

Well, now the King could find their bodies when their boat docked – empty.

"On. Your. Knees", Rosencrantz drags him back to reality and Hamlet looks up at him, glaring.

"Go. To. Hell."

Rosencrantz punches him in the stomach, hard, and then, for good measure, gives a swift jab of his knee to where it really hurts.

Hamlet cries out in half pain half shock, and collapses to the ground without a second thought.

The mace swings back and forth, picking up momentum.

Luckily at this moment the boat decides to ride one of the oncoming waves and everything goes topsy-turvy.

Guildenstern falls backwards, hitting his shoulder against the port railing, and Rosencrantz almost slips, though regains his composure.

Rosencrantz swings the mace wildly but Hamlet knows it's coming. He leans back so far he feels something in his spine crack, and lets his hand rest against the deck of the ship.

One of the mace's spikes grazes his cheek, making him bite down, but it doesn't do any real damage.

Besides, the taste of his own blood feels good. Feels real.

Still crouching uncomfortably on the deck, Hamlet just had time to see Guildenstern run towards him before he acts. He swings his legs around, still balancing on one hand, and sweeps the knees. The courtier does a full 360 twist through the air, then lands, knocking his head against the deck with a satisfying crunch.

_He won't be getting up for a long while.  
_  
Like chopping the head of a bloody hydra, if he takes one out the other replaces it faster than he can take a breath. Rosencrantz screams loudly, running at him with his mace from the point he retreated to. Hamlet sucks in a sharp breathe and jumps to one side, but he muffs the move slightly. The mace connects with Hamlet's left ribs and he sees stars. Red roses bloom across his white shirt and he's sure he feels something shift in his chest when he hits the deck.

He sees an evil smile and a flash of coal black eyes as Rosencrantz approaches him, mace in hand, and its all the motivation he needs to slide down the deck as the ship tilts alarmingly to one side. The mace burries itself in the wood where the prince's head had been just a moment before.

Rosencrantz goes for another shot and misses as Hamlet slips and slides away on the slick wood.

This goes on for a few more rounds. Rosencrantz looses it and yells something unintelligible. The anger and the fear make the courtier quicker. Smarter.

The mace burries itself in Hamlet's calf, just below his right knee.

The sound he makes is louder than the creaking of the ship's immense hull and is whipped away in a seething torrent of betrayal faster than the rain on the wind.

Before Rosencrantz can go in for the kill he pulls himself up using the ship's starboard railing, and leans against it with a hateful look etched across his sharp face. Red clouds his vision, dripping down over his eyes, and he's fairly certain it isn't from the anger welling up inside him. It's blood. _His _blood.

Registering Guildenstern pulling himself to his feet, Hamlet decides a hasty retreat would probably be the best option right now.

Moving to run down the length of the boat, the prince cries out and bites down on the inside of his cheek as a blinding pain shoots up from the wound in his leg. He reckons that the lump on Rosencrantz' mace may or may not be a hunk of his leg.

Spitting a tooth and some blood from his mouth in Rosencrantz' direction, he manages to draw his sword with some little time to spare before the duo run at him.

Hamlet manages to knock Rosencrantz to the ground easily now that he has a weapon, but Guildenstern is quicker – he dodges and weaves around the prince like a will-o'-the-wisp.

"Give it up Hamlet!" the man snarls, "You're screwed."

The prince looks from left to right.

The crew – who have been woken by the brawl – are watching silently, their heads bowed, eyes averted. No one is coming to his rescue.

"I… I…" Hamlet holds his rapier uncertainly, looking down at the blade and wondering if he actually _can _– actually _will _– kill his childhood friends. "… _Rosencrantz?!_"

The man is already back on his feet, blood rushing from the wound Hamlet's opened in his head. He runs at the prince with an animalistic scream, mace swinging round above his head too slowly to look dangerous. But Hamlet knows it'll crack his scull open like an egg.

So it is with this in mind that he quickly doges, jumping up onto the ship's railing. The rain isn't helping in the slightest, making the boards wet and slippery.

The waves crash below in the whirling, shadowy abyss of the North Atlantic.

"King's orders Hamlet", Guildenstern says. He can intervene. He can kill Hamlet easily with Rosencrantz' help. But he doesn't.

He _wants _to prolong this.

Still, somehow hearing that bastard's name sparks something in the prince. He jumps across the deck, narrowly missing Rosencrantz' spiked ball, and delivers a double kick to Guildenstern's chest. Raining down punch after punch and scream after scream Hamlet – ignoring the immense pain in his ribs and leg – manages to push Guildenstern to the ground with a swift uppercut to his chin.

It comes loose easier that the lid on a jar of pickles, and the man's tongue lolls out of his broken jaw, black and bloodied.

The sound Hamlet elicits from the courtier is something akin to a dog being kicked in the stomach.

The sound hasn't entirely ended by the time Hamlet's run the man through with his sword.

The killing lacks the finesse the prince exhibits while fencing. The fact that it's Guildenstern has knocked him off guard, ruined the flow.

He doesn't have time to see all the life drain from the man's eyes before Rosencrantz is upon him, spitting and cursing like a demon.

Hamlet is sandwiched between Guildenstern's broken, bloodied body and Rosencrantz' mace, which is swinging with some trouble through the air above Hamlet's head.

The competition might not be real, but the hatred in the man's eyes is. The anger. And… the guilt. The regret. And… _hesitancy?_

"Rosencrantz don't do this!" Hamlet screams, hoarse, "You don't _have _to do this!"

Hamlet's sword is still sticking from Guildenstern's chest, and the steady flow of blood is turning his blonde hair purple. He can't reach the hilt though… His arms are pinned underneath him at a painful angle. If only he could just…

Rosencrantz' face is directly in front of his, so close his nose is almost touching Hamlet's forehead.

"I'm sorry", he sobs, eyes manic and full of burning, horrified tears.

The man has just lost his best friend. He's all alone.

Still, the blood from his wound is dripping down onto Hamlet's face and it disgusts him beyond human comprehension. It is dirty. Unsterile. It is the blood or a _murderer. _A _traitor.  
_  
Into his eyes… His nose… Some of it even goes in his mouth… It tastes like old coins.

"I'm so sorry", he repeats and then, strengthening his resolve, straddles the prince and sits up. He raises the mace above his head.

"Welcome to hell, my friend", he snarls, bringing the mace down and…

It stops short.

The broken blade of a sword is buried in the man's neck.

Hamlet could swear that – as he registers the pain in his broken wrist, which had been freed as Rosencrantz stood up – he could see a look in the courtier's eyes.

Dismissal.

"Ha", he almost seems to say, "Like a little needle could hurt me."

He is so very wrong.

Blood pours down, like rain. Some of it is thin and red and pure… Other bits thick black clots like sewage. And it all goes onto Hamlet.

The last thought Hamlet has before he slips out of consciousness, along with a lingering image of Ophelia, is: _too much blood…  
_  
_Too much blood… Too much… Too much…_

"Henning! Henning look at me! Oh god… Oh hell… Henning? Wake up!"

Everything burns. His skin is one fire. His throat is closing up… He can't breathe… He… he…

"Henning!"

He feels like he's been punched in the gut. Hard. His legs are one blinding universe of pain. He feels like he's been stabbed in the chest…

"Wake up man. Come on Henning, your scaring me… Hen?"

He doesn't understand… He doesn't understand anything any more… Who's talking to him?… He's… He's –

In a room.

In a bed.

Henning groans loudly, then sucks in a sharp breath upon being assaulted by light from virtually every angle. He pushes his forearm over his eyes and whimpers.

Someone breathes a sigh of relief.

"I'm awake", he mumbles into his arm, "I'm awake, I'm awake."

_I'm awake. I haven't just murdered my two best friends. I haven't been smashed in the ribs with a mace. I'm awake. I'm awake. I'm –  
_  
"Jesus, man", the same someone exclaims, "You scared me."

"Mm…" he peeks out from under his arm, "Ramin?"

A breathless, hesitant laugh. "Yeah. Who else?"

Henning's chest heaves up and down for a brief moment of calm, the only sound in the room Ramin's shifting around and his uneven breathing.

The dream is a far away thing now.

He remembers it vaguely.

A ship.

Rain.

Betrayal.

But he remembers his friends best. Ramin and Gage.

And he remembers their blood.

There are no lights on in the room – the brightness that had attacked him before came from the cracked window, where the streetlights from the boarding school's parking lot were shining through.

The sun still hasn't risen, and he can see frost on the windowpane.

It reminds him of the snowy wind that was lashing across his cheeks just moments before…

He tries not to think about the nightmare and sits up, looking around blearily.

He is in his campus pod.

Ramin is hanging on the bars of his bunk bed beside him.

They are not dead.

Ramin is not dead.

Gage, probably, is not dead.

Henning is not dead… Everyone is alive.

"Gage…" he croaks, the word broken, "… Ramin…" he pokes at his friend, "Your alive?"

Shock flashes bright across Ramin's brow, but he quickly regains his composure.

"It's okay Henning. I'm alive… See?" he touches his chest, "Alive. Gage is alive. We're all alive. Just relax."

Henning tries to do what he says, tries to slow his heavy heart, but the extremely awkward position he's in, pinned under both of Ramin's arms and speaking to his shoulder, isn't really helping.

Ramin, who doesn't really have a sense of personal space, shakes a few dark curls out of his eyes and then fixes Henning with a concerned gaze. "Man, that must've been some dream."

Henning doesn't answer.

He instead presses a probing hand to his own bare chest, then his ribs. He moves his leg up and down experimentally. He runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth, checking for cuts. He flexes his wrist.

He is alive.

"… Just a dream, Min."

"Not just a dream, I think", Ramin leans forward slightly to inspect him, but the gentle gesture only reminds Ramin of the dream. The mace.

_'"I'm sorry", he sobs, eyes manic and full of burning, horrified tears… The man has just lost his best friend. He's all alone…' _

Ramin notices the pained look that flashes across Henning's face, and, mistaking it for annoyance, retreats with a sad look.

Henning tries to smile apologetically at him, but only succeeds in grimacing.

"Dude, you were kicking and screaming. It's… like… 06:00am… You're lucky you didn't wake the entire campus up", Ramin comments, "Not _just a dream_."

He gulps.

He remembers kicking and screaming as he attacked Ramin and Gage… only… they weren't Ramin and Gage… They went by different names… Weird names…

"Was I really?"

"Mm-hmm", Ramin is doing that thing where he pretends not to be worried for him – but in reality he is terrified. Henning smiles at Ramin weakly in appreciation of the gesture as he hikes his track pants further up his hips. Everything seems to have moved further down the bed… The sheets and duvet are bunched at the end of the bed, and the mattress has slipped across the boards of the bunk… And he appears to have thrown his pillow across the room and onto Ramin's single bed (Henning has one of those bunk beds with a desk beneath).

He feels something wet on his hands as he rolls over and has a sudden fear that he's wet the bed – at his age? – but then realises that it was sweat. He's drenched in it.

He realises why he's so cold and shivers in the chilly early morning air, wishing he'd slept in something more substantial than a pair of ratty track-pants. But he doesn't like pyjamas. They make him feel claustrophobic when he sleeps. Like he's been mummified. Usually he'll sleep above the sheets and the duvet, but that night Ramin and Gage had insisted it was too cold out.

Henning smooths a few damp blonde strands back and breathes in and out deeply.

"I'm fine, really."

Ramin gives him a slow once over, as if he, too, is checking for wounds, then nods and descends the ladder.

"It's just I think I just had the worst nightmare ever", Henning mumbles quietly.

Ramin is on the floor of the room now, hopping around in search of his shoes and a decent pair of pants – he doesn't appear to have heard Henning. The only light in the room comes from the window, as Ramin has still neglected to turn the overheads on, and Henning is glad – because he's fairly certain he'd been crying in his sleep, and his eyes throb painfully. He has a sneaking suspicion Ramin has heard him sobbing – judging from how large his own eyes look in the darkness.

Ramin is one of those people who hate confrontation. They hate clutter and disorder and pain. They don't like others to suffer.

It's what makes him such a great friend.

With this in mind, the blonde boy watches the brunette for a few moments, smiling fondly at his attempts to look unshaken, then sighs. "You don't have to get up, Ramin. It's 6 o'clock, go back to sleep."

"'Meh. Your alarm clock goes off in half an hour. That usually wakes me up anyway…" He doesn't sound as nonchalant as he makes out.

He's buggered.

"Really, Min -"

"_Really_, Hen", Ramin jokingly interrupts, "There's no point in sleeping if I'll just be woken up in the middle of the night by an alarm."

Henning looks down at the sheets bunched around his long legs guiltily. He's part of the debate club, which rises earlier than the other students on campus. Ramin isn't a member of… _any _club. It sometimes strikes Henning as unmotivated, although he tries not to let it show. He has no right to be judgemental – seeing as Ramin has been putting up with him getting up at 06:00am in the morning all semester. And now the nightmares…He'll be lucky if Ramin doesn't request a permanent relocation.

He doesn't know what he'll do if Ramin leaves him all alone…

"Hey?"

Henning broke out of his reverie.

"Mm?"

"You got time for breakfast? I only have to be on the quad at eight so I got plenty'a time."

Henning smiles tightly and shakes his head.

"I gotta take a shower man. And then I've got the debate with Olive and I need to prepare my notes…"

"That one about Haiti or whatever?"

"Yes", Henning replies wryly, "_The one about Haiti or whatever._"

"'S it important?"

"Min! It's half our semester grades! You should know that!"

Ramin shrugs as he attempts to straighten the perpetual tangle upon his head.

"I don't see the point of arguing for something if it doesn't make a difference."

_Hmm. That's fair.  
_  
Henning closes his eyes for a long moment, wishing he could just go back to sleep (with no nightmares) but changes his mind and pushes the sheets of himself.

"Shower time", he sighed, swinging his legs over the rails and jumping to the floor.

He stands there for a long while, swaying on his feet and, once he's sure he's not going to fall over, he brushes his hair out of his eyes and makes for the bathroom.

"Dude, you're shaking…" Ramin's hand is tight on his forearm.

"I'm _fine_."

"… You know… you can tell me what it was about."

He thinks about the nightmare, suppressing a shudder.

"I don't want to talk about it, man."

It's just too weird. Ramin wouldn't understand. Ramin's sweet, gentle, loving – he has virtually _no _enemies. The nearest thing Ramin's come to a nightmare as bad as Henning's was when he dreamed he failed his maths assignment.

Ramin doesn't dream about ships on the high seas.

Ramin doesn't dream about _murdering _he and Gage.

"Alright. But when you get back here for break I'm making you and Gage chocolate frappes."

"Deal."

The campus pods at the boarding school are nicer than the ones at the college, seeing as the school's special trust funding is higher because the students are all ridiculously wealthy.

It's a modern antique, with a dark wood panelled floor, cream walls, floor to ceiling windows and a plasma TV above the mock fireplace.

There's one bedroom with two single beds and a bunk, a kitchen, a lounge and a small bathroom. Henning shares the space with Ramin and Gage… Speaking of Gage…

"Where _is_ Gage?"

Ramin says through the fabric of the shirt he's pulling on, "Couldn't sleep with your night terrors. Went for a jog."

Henning blanches, letting his eyes swoop down to his feet as he fumbles with the bathroom door. Every door on campus has a swipe card the students use to open and shut things, that way if anyone steals anything the card can be used to track the suspects' movements.

The cards have to be kept on a dog-tag style chain around the students' necks at all times. Loosing a tag justifies immediate expulsion.

Henning finally manages to open the bathroom door, and blinks as the neon light strips on the ceiling whir to life.

He crosses the bathroom, his feet slapping against the tiles, then turns on the shower, letting steam flood the room.

He then returns to the door and begins to close and lock it.

"Don't use up all the hot water!" Ramin says.

"Fat chance", Henning returns.

"You know", he sees his friend's silhouette as he flops down on his bed, pulling out the copy of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame _the school gave him to study, "The whole shower thing would be a whole lot easier if you let me _take one with you._"

Henning smiles as he always does at his friend's vaguely suggestive comments. "You have Gage for that, Min."

"Oh, haha."

He does have Gage.  
He has Gage to help hold Henning down while he wields a mace like someone from _Game of Thrones.  
_  
Pulling off his pants, he tries not to think about the insane dream.

Of course, Ramin's probing isn't helping that much.

"Since when have you been taking the language classes?"

"Uhm… since February."

"So you _do_ take them?"

"I just said that genius."

"Whatever…" a pause, "I didn't know they gave Danish."

Henning pauses. "Sorry?"

"Danish."

"Yeah. I heard you, Ramin. But what do you mean?"

"You. You were yelling in Danish in your sleep."

He feels his throat close up immediately.

The word – innocent enough – makes his stomach twist unpleasantly.

Denmark.

_Danmark.  
_  
"… You're sure? It couldn't have been Swedish or something? We've been watching all those crime shows with Olive…?"

"Na-uh. Weird names kept popping up… And words like _imperium _and _mord _and _genfærd… _You were a little obscure but I reckon it was Danish."

Henning stares at himself in the mirror for a while, looking into the reflection's dark eyes and asking it when – if ever – he's said anything in _Danish.  
_  
The person who stares back at him is the person from his dream.

He's tallish, pale, with a strong face, a tip-tilted nose and hair that is currently hanging down over his eyes in limp, sweat-clumped strands. "Cute", girls would say. Not all that appreciatively but, still, it's an improvement from "alright".

Not like Ramin, who's Romanian-Welsh with a snub nose and eyes constantly resembling a deer stuck in the headlights of a car. Now _Ramin, _Ramin was _actually _the physical embodiment of the word "cute".

But, unlike his friend's expressive face, the face staring back at Henning reveals nothing. At all.

"Is Danish one of the Romance languages?" he asks after a long while.

"Nah, man. French, Russian and Italian."

"What about the Mandatory?"

"German, Spanish, Asian."

He lets his eyes rove over Ramin's silhouette in the fogged glass of the door, wondering just how worried his friend is right now.

He's given Ramin reason enough to worry these past few months… Ever since they both joined the campus… There was the smashed windows… The egged teacher's house… And now his mother and Carroll…

Ramin… Ramin is like a mother figure to Henning, he supposes, and he takes whatever the blonde boy did in stride, and tries not to let it all get to him.

He really needs to repay Ramin. Somehow.

"Cheers man." He murmurs, after a while. Not the heartfelt _thank you my dearest friend on this earth _he was going for, but an improvement from the awkward silence.

"For what bro?"

"… For just… _being _here."

He can feel Ramin's smile through the glass. "What're friends for, eh?"

_'He raises the mace above his head. "Welcome to hell, my friend…"' _

"Yeah, ha", Henning chuckles, a little short of breath, "Sure."


End file.
